


Everything and Nothing

by dvske



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Afterlife in the Country, Asher-Centric - Freeform, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's at the brink of existence that they contemplate what went wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purge

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt from the lovely venhediss on tumblr. She gave me hard-hitting themes to explore, but the ones that stuck out to me most was what can only exist in a negative space? What does it mean to rely on a person, a place, an ideal?
> 
> It seemed only fitting that I leaned towards the Country, and even more so towards Asher. I wrote this with his final lines in mind.

There are constants.

Asher sitting hunched at the kitchen table, mouth perched against one palm, his free hand picking at the curl of cream-colored paper. His journal rests before him, a moleskine with blank spaces, with screaming gaps between the seams. The page is a quarter-full with rambling scrawl. His pen, tossed aside, rigid and untouched. A false start, a subsequent pause.

Then the sudden creak of the stairs. Footsteps, heavy and slow, tug him from his thoughts. The wood groans its discomfort from the hallway behind, alerting him to Grant’s descent. There’s a _weight_ to the man’s movement, one that permeates the air and takes a creeping grip of Asher’s gut.

Asher, waiting. Counting. Each step.

Movement at his back, Grant striding through the hall without a word.

The front door opening, allowing daylight’s muted tones to seep into the hollows of the house.

Then the hard click of the door’s close.

Silence.

Achingly routine silence.

Routine, only now. Only here, in the Country. For all its expanse, all its freedom, all the time it’s allowed them to spend together—it’s unforgiving. Cold and static and restrictive in ways Asher’s never anticipated. He’s never anticipated this…rift. This distance.

Unyielding.

He crumples the page, tosses it to the floor.

 

_-_

 

_As one._

_That was their aim, their promise to one another. All that they would do, all that they would in turn accomplish, would reflect on them as a unit. Four impassioned and unique individuals standing as a single entity. The Camerata. A reckoning force. An agent of change. Symbols, each of them._

_Royce, the head. The mind. An architect and engineer, a master of calculations and patterns and data given concrete shape. He helped craft and refine the very landscape they sought to mold._

_Sybil, their eyes and ears. Coordinated, charismatic. Silver-tongued and tenacious to boot. Capable enough to navigate through all the murmurs of a city distressed with ease. The collective gaze of Cloudbank was trained on her, and she donned her masks with expertise._

_Grant. The spine. Firm support. Guiding when they needed it most, and his rank within the system a boon. His clearance brought them to new heights, and the inner workings of Cloudbank were so deeply ingrained to his core that it was hard to tell where the job ended, where the man began._

_Asher. Hands and feet. Fingerprints and footsteps, markings and trails. A keeper of records and shepherd of words. The flow of information, public and private, fell under his reign. He made art of it,_ reveled _in it._

_And they had purpose, united for a single cause. They worked as one. Breathed as one. Flourished as one._

_Fell as one._

_As one—and yet._

 

-

 

They find each other again, as if by chance. Separate in their wandering, at least until they meet at a crossroads. Under-trodden dirt paths snake through a sea of grass, stitched into the earth. It’s there they come to pause, lost souls reunited, knowing only that they once were, that they somehow still are.

A blessing on the surface.

A cruel touch of fate, when relief gives way to remembrance.

And they stand as cardinal points, facing one another while final moments and resting places bubble beneath the surface:

Sybil and her stage, an empty expanse awaiting a queen’s return. Sharp pangs of pain as the Process reconstruct her into something inhuman, broken, unhinged—she’s trapped until granted release. Echoes of regret and longing are written on her features. Apology rests on her lips, but it’s soon bitten back and swallowed because words will fail her now. Words, weighted as they are, will do nothing now. So she wrings her hands, swallows hard, and bows her head.

Royce, closed off and recalling a setting much like this, more decorated than this. Sleeping husks of former selves resting in a grid of pods. Traces. Souls. Life essence stored away. His own essence, shattered and tossed here in an instant because he wasn’t _good_ enough to win when it mattered most. Royce, weathered and aching, one hand in his pants pocket and the other at his side, clenched. Unclenched. Clenched once more. A man so used to having control. Standing, for once in his life, uncertain and unsure.

Asher. Grant. Cornered in their own domain, a safe haven turned cage. Pure chaos raging outside, the world being wiped clean, and their former target turning her sights on them at last. Payback, at last. The clock keeps ticking. The futility of it all floods over them each in waves. And the fear, the realization, that this is the very dread they’ve seeded in the hearts of countless others. Their doing and theirs alone.

_‘What have you done…’_

Then Grant stumbling past a desk. Catching himself by the chalkboard, his fingers smudging the diagram drawn there. Grant with his jacket starting to slip from his shoulders, sagging against the board with a cough that racks his body. A tinkle of glass dropping to the floor, drops of liquid blossoming at his feet. A vial. Practically empty.

_‘What did you do?’_

Asher with his voice cracking, rushing over concerned and frantic. His hands shake as Grant sinks to the floor with shuddering breaths. His eyes are wide and trained on that vial as revelation hits. Liquid. A tonic. Lethal in high doses.

_‘What did you do?!’_

Grant’s eyes slipping shut, his hand on Asher’s as the blond yells and berates and begs. His mouth, a grimace. An utterance, unheard.

Then stillness.

_‘Grant!’_

Silence. Then and now.

And now…

The two stand opposite each other now, wordless like the others, but Grant stands with firm composure. Hands folded behind his back, his jaw set and head held high as if in defiance. As if to steel himself for what may come, now that the storm has passed.

Yet not an ounce of explanation can be found in his gaze, for he refuses to look Asher in the eyes.

Asher’s spirit wavers.

Together again. Divided.

 

-

 

Time’s frozen here.

Asher notes it in the way life plays out in a steady loop.

The sun rising and setting in the same positions each day. The same lethargic breeze, a wisp of cool breath, brushing against his skin in those rare moments he ventures outside. The same stretch of sky, expansive and monochrome, cradled above golden fields. Open, uniform land that reaches far beyond their farmhouse towards locations unknown. Towards nothing, perhaps. A river in the distance, if one’s up for the walk. But the waters are lifeless. The air, lifeless. Soundless, even. Every inch of this world is stagnant, as if solely for show. Simple and yet so much to take in.

A bit like Cloudbank, in that respect. Nothing like Cloudbank at all.

He misses it.

In his heart, he still holds the rhythms of a city set in constant motion. Energy thrumming through the streets and hidden pathways, through the buildings themselves. Voices carrying high and clear, wrapping around him mind, body and soul; even at his most detached, his most tuned-out, he never felt truly alone. He recalls vibrancy in the form of colors dousing the city, in the form of varying personalities that fluctuated and blended and contrasted with each other all at once. A civilization at its peak, and…

Cyclical in nature. Frozen in its own uniqueness, in its own loops.

A bit like here. Nothing like here at all.

The closest the city ever comes to this false sense of calm is during her metamorphosis hours. At the cusp of waning night and daybreak, when a remaining few continued to evade slumber, Cloudbank’s structures dissolve and reform themselves anew. She opens up in a slow bloom, the latest poll results becoming reality for a time. Only in those moments does the Old fade, the New sprout forth, and all sense of life is muted to the point of numbness.

Only in these moments does Asher feel his most out of place.

He remembers his restless evenings, wont to peering through the window when his thoughts wouldn’t settle. He remembers watching as Cloudbank transformed. A bead of unease swells in his chest, spurred on by the lack of stable ground, by the knowledge that this transformation won’t last as long as its predecessor. There’s always something bigger, better, brighter, more beautiful than before—and time’s lost. Irrelevant, in the grand scheme, with no real consequence on the people’s whim.

Why heed that which you control with the press of a button? Why heed that which rests in the palms of your hands? Time—no, Cloudbank—was theirs to command in every sense. Theirs, and _still_ it slipped away.

Here, they affect nothing. Time passes with or without their approval, and their thoughts keep pace.

They find reprieve where they can.

Sybil finds hers in sleep, where memories chase her with far less clarity and bite. She’ll settle on the porch long before sunrise, swathed in an oversized shawl, lying in the hanging sofa swing while the hours pass her by. Sometimes she’ll have a book, one of many found lining the shelves when they first discovered this makeshift home. Sometimes she’ll have mug of tea. Both sit barely touched, in the end.

Royce has taken to wood carvings and paper sculptures. Something to do with his hands. Keeps his mind busy since he can’t ever seem to sleep. He’ll sit huddled in the den, his creations littering the floor, the coffee table or his spot on the couch. Shoes kicked off, sleeves rolled back and his knees pulled up while his fingers set to work with such practiced precision that Asher often wonders if this is an old hobby reclaimed. Not a word from his lips, not a single glance up.

And Grant… Grant takes his walks. Early to rise, driven out of bed by some internal clock that keeps him grounded despite the lack of things to do here. Always with the mattress creaking under his weight, the stairs soon following suit. He’s met with nothing more than the first few rays of sunlight casting misshapen shadows on the wooden floors.

Asher’s always left the room by then, leaving a cold absence in the bed. He goes downstairs, holes away in the kitchen with his journal and tries to write what he can. Write what he can remember of the city he still holds dear. He leaves so he won’t have to wake to an empty room, to a half-abandoned bed himself. He does so in order to know, exactly, when Grant stirs to life. He does so in order to offer, each morning, a chance for change in their routine.

Waking. Walking. Waiting, a pause.

_Maybe this time he’ll stop? This time, he’ll say something…_

The door opening. Closing.

And no, foolish to think so. Foolish to expect it, when Asher refuses to speak himself. They’ve exchanged their words, back at the start; conversations left unfinished—

But the cycle of silence repeats.

 

_-_

 

_The first night, he’d flared._

_He’d spent the whole day with anxiety brewing in his chest, with tension building and building despite his efforts to set it all aside. Long enough, at least, to try and settle into this new life. This new space the others were intent on making into a home._

_They’d found it much like they’d found each other, unexpectedly. Roaming along until it was spotted in the distance. A beacon. A mirage, in Royce’s words, trick of the mind. Had to be._

_‘Let’s at least check it out.’ Sybil tugging at his hands, nudging them all along, some of her old spark returning if only for the moment._

_A cozy thing, fully furnished and rustic in design. It came filled with the necessities, though they weren’t quite sure how. There were knicks and knacks and other treasures tucked away, remnants of the world they’d left behind. Conveniently placed, eerily so, and yet they opted to stay here all the same. Where else to go? So they set to work, cleaning and rearranging, discovering each hidden nook. Bedrooms, bathrooms, closets and dens. Too much space, too much quiet. Too much of the familiar, the same, and yet—_

_Different._

_Everything, different._

_And the calm broke._

_It shattered the moment daylight bled away into endless nothing. The moment Royce slipped onto the porch for a breath of night air, scratching fingers along his wrist tops; restless habit, reflex of a cigarette craving left unsatisfied. Calm broke the moment Sybil went into the downstairs bedroom, her old spark dissolving at last, the novelty of their new surroundings wearing off. She’d grown too distant and weary to notice the razor-thin edge resting between Grant and Asher all day._

_Grant and Asher, in the master bedroom upstairs. The door closed so they could have their private moment. A chance to talk, at last._

_Yet Asher_ flared _when Grant continued to be avoidant, when he wouldn’t answer to the blond’s calls. Asher’s temper, a blistering brand. His words, serrated and tearing into his husband with a ferocity foreign to them both. And at the core, an unvoiced accusation laced through each insult:_

You left.

_Grant, dismissive in his rebuttals, growing colder in demeanor even as Asher carved craters into his heart. And how could he be? How could be feign composure after abandoning everything? Despite his own fears, despite not knowing what would await him in death—_

You left me.

_How could he, despite the quivering of his own hands and that damned vial, that damn burning in his throat. The glare of white and red streaks melting in the back of his mind, the cries of the city demanding justice._

You left me behind.

_How could he, despite Asher’s cries?_

Why did you leave, why did you, why—

_‘There was no other choice, Asher.’_

_A bold-faced lie._

_Still, he wouldn’t look him in the eyes._

 

-

 

Where does he go?

It’s clockwork each morning, wondering where Grant spends the better half of his day. Perhaps he walks until all sensation’s left his feet, until body feels a numbness to match the mind. Perhaps he walks to give his mind the distance it needs to keep itself whole, lest it suffocate in this house like so much else.

Does he sort through his memories, the way Asher attempts to on paper? Do they wash over him all at once or in pieces, faltering, sharpened around the edges yet blurred at the centers? Does he wonder what to say and how to say it? How to bridge this distance when the proper words elude them both?

What is left?

The questions plague Asher to the point of making him stumble through his daily entries, halting altogether. Memories of old sights, old smells and goings-on around Cloudbank come to him with less clarity. It’s gotten worse in the past few weeks, frustrating beyond belief, beyond even this deafening quiet.

For what does he have left without his words?

Potential, wasted. It’s almost ironic. The city gave them purpose, and with it gone… There’s nothing to build here, nothing to better. Only each other, their own thoughts, and they don’t like what they see. Maybe that’s why Sybil sleeps. Why Royce shuts it all out.

Why Grant leaves.

Asher. He’s tired of writing around in circles. He’s tired of muddling through his words.

Today, he powers on.

_Grant,_

A new page. No folding or tearing. No stopping. No second guessing only to restart minutes later. Just speed, the feel of his pen gliding across the surface despite his inner critic prompting him to stop. Just him and the page and what little freedom it allows.

_There’s a lot to say and too much time to say it. Too much time for everything, it seems, and yet we don’t set enough aside for when it matters most._

_We_ need _to talk, but you steal the opportunity away every morning. Every night when I’ve fallen asleep, when you’ve climbed in bed long after. Close enough to share a heartbeat, close enough for me to know you're near, but I can’t feel you like I used to. You steal yourself away, and..._

_I don’t know how to reach you again._

_That’s not right._

_I’m afraid to try._

Catharsis. Candid in a way he can’t bring himself to be in person, out loud. Reaching out for the first time in ages, with the fervor of one starved for a clean slate.

It’s easier, somehow, knowing that he won’t show these words to Grant at all.

_I once knew your heart, and now… I’m afraid I’ve lost you. It’s already happened once. You're still lost, I think, more so than the rest of us. What if you never return? How easy would it be? How easy to just break away from it all now, to disappear to god knows where. Disappear for good. I can’t blame you, not entirely. Nothing feels right here. Not you. Not me. Not this warped version of Hell._

_We should have disappeared with the city, Grant. With Cloudbank._

_But we’re here._

The breaking point, his hand coming to a pause as the words sink in. A mess of words, yet more cohesive than he expected at first. He lingers, unsure how to continue. The familiar sense of unease sets in.

Then a question (questions), burning on the page.

~~_Why did you leave?_ ~~

~~_Where do you go?_ ~~

~~_Where have you gone?_ ~~

_Come back._

 

-

 

_He was no poet, not in the sense he ever imagined or understood. His words held a certain cadence, true, but nothing he believed to be as artful, as masterfully woven._

_Grant liked to argue otherwise._

_‘It’s the intent that inspires.’_

_‘Intentions only carry so far.’_

_‘And still, they carry.’_

_Reassurance for when Asher disliked his work, whenever he threatened to scrap a draft hard-won and start from scratch (again and again). It tended to happen over drinks and quick meals, both men huddled at a booth at Grant’s favorite cafe. Each with their respective tablets and papers sprawled on the table as they aided each other with their latest workload. Grant with his reports and proposals, Asher with his articles._

_Grant would pour over each draft with such concentration, the angles of his face softening as the words took shape. He’d pick through the passages Asher wrestled with most, ones he claimed to be too dry, too sparse, too needless. Sentences, un-threaded and woven back into a more fitting section. Concepts were teased out, probing questions noted in the margins. Where Asher feared he drowned in his own voice, Grant revealed the strengths. Where the facts didn’t quite add up, Grant supplied sources of his own._

_Where Asher doubted, Grant patiently repeated:_

_‘Don’t discard what can be renewed.’_

_It was the basis of editing, Asher knew, but still he found the process awe-worthy._

_‘You should be the editor,’ he’d half-joke when their sessions drew to a close._

_Grant would shake his head. ‘Nonsense. I haven’t the patience.’_

_‘You do for me.’_

_And a smile, soft and brilliant. ‘Only for you.’_

 

-

 

There are variables.

The house, stirring at last in the odd evening hours. Its inhabitants, sleeping in for once, come to life right as the scenery outside starts to shift. Crisp blue, broken by gray that bleeds through in streaks, darkening the clouds. The air is thick and heady, weighing against their skin despite being indoors. Silence is disturbed in small ripples; a pitter-patter on the porch, the windows, the roof and walls.

Rain.

They rise as the noise echoes around them.

Sybil, used to still being on the porch this time of night, peers outside with curiosity lighting her features. She seats herself by the front door which is swung open to let the screen behind it breathe, to let the sound of rainfall seep in.

Royce approaches from behind, staring outside with much of the same fascination. He holds two cooling mugs of coffee, reaches down to place one in Sybil’s hands. She accepts it absently, blowing the rim before taking a sip.

Asher with his legs outstretched, seated at the head of the stairs. He watches them both, struck by the intimacy of the moment. The familiarity of it. The quiet solidarity. Caught off guard by the fact that such weather can occur on its own terms. Caught off guard, more than anything, by the fact that it can still rain at all. The earth soaks it up. The world, washed clean.

_If only._

Variables.

Grant hasn’t left the room.

For an instant, Asher considers getting up to rouse him from bed. He could easily drag him into this moment, fleeting as it may be. If only because it could be the last. If only because, in this here and now, it finally feels like time is churning forward.

‘We should go out.’ Sybil suggests it as absently as she drinks.

‘We’ll just get soaked,’ Asher says, though he sympathizes with the urge.

‘I don’t care.’

‘You’ll muss your hair,’ Royce adds, matter-of-fact in his chiding.

That alone causes her to pat her head, as if self-consciously recalling past instances of frizzy ends and defiant curls. ‘Still.’

‘You’re more than welcome to.’

‘Come with me.’

‘ _Absolutely_ not.’

‘Asher, what about—oh, don’t you give me that face.’

‘I’m with Royce on this one,’ he replies, a small grin on his lips (odd, foreign). That simply earns him a huff in response.

‘It’s a waste, it is.’ A pause, Sybil pressing a hand to the screen. Reverent. The winds picks up and ghosts itself against her fingers. And with the look on her face, hers and Royce’s, it’s clear that Cloudbank is on the mind. Cloudbank, beautiful even in the midst of pelting rain. Glittering waters, bridges stretching in the haze. The sheen and sparkle of umbrellas under streetlights. Boots splashing through puddles, heads bowed and shielded by colorful hoods…

Sybil sighs. ‘Grant’s missing out.’

Another pause, longer this time, and Asher’s grin fades as he averts his gaze. He picks at a loose thread in his trousers, recalls Grant’s bulky form still burrowed beneath their sheets.

Then he rises.

He takes his time heading for the bedroom, eager to summon Grant despite the coldness between them. Sybil’s words loop through his head; a waste, an utter waste for him to miss this. Cruel to allow it, when the rain affords such a relaxing atmosphere. He cracks open the door—

And he’s met with the sight of Grant hunched over.

The man sits at the foot of the bed, undressed, hair loosed. His elbows weigh heavily against his knees, the sheets are pooled around his feet, and his face is buried in his hands. A tremor runs through his body, slight but noticeable. It takes Asher a moment to realize that it’s tears that are causing the man to tremble so.

Crying. He’s crying.

What to do?

Asher stands frozen, unnoticed and unsure if he’s grateful for it. He’s wants to comfort, wants to retreat. Most of all, he wants to question. What’s brought on these tears? The rain? The memories it evokes?

Something rooted, perhaps, much deeper?

Grant inhales, sharp. It cuts Asher to the bone…

..but he shuts the door despite the hollow in his chest. Softly, without a word.


	2. Rewind

Uncertainty buzzes in the air. It thrums against Asher’s skin as he lies awake, unmoving, with roaming thoughts. Starkly aware of the wool comforter’s caress, the thin sheets underneath, the warmth radiating from Grant’s body beside him. Proximity there, the man’s back facing Asher’s side with a distinct curve forward; leaning away, curled in on himself. Cocooned. In stasis, his breathing rhythmic and low. Awake, Asher suspects, but pretending not to be.

Every fiber in his being is yearning to speak—yet silence.

_We’ve done this before._

The thought seeps through as memory unfurls, a hazy curtain of lost time. A night much like this, with the rain pelting down. A night petering out into a single moment of disquiet turned within. Both of them, weighing the pieces of their heart.

Fickle beast, one’s heart.

It rarely rests, folding instead into uneven pieces that scrape and scar until the friction becomes too great to bear. It folds until it becomes unrecognizable, an echo of its former self. Shrunken and pulsing, causing ripples that don’t quite reach the softened edges of the night. The world's thrown out of balance.

And often, in the dead of night, the heart breaks.

Fickle beast, but consistently fragile.

Asher’s teeters.

To comfort. To question. To ignore.

This silence.

They’ve done this before.

 

-

 

_He’d missed his train._

_It was the last one eastbound, the last one that would take him home this late at night. A miserable night, at that; the city was drenched. Heavy rain on yesterday’s poll, a rare option that somehow won majority vote. Perhaps to add flavor to the ceaseless string of sunshine and cloudless skies. Perhaps because it hadn’t rained at all in months. Either way, Asher was slowed down considerably._

_A fraction past midnight, mere minutes, but he hadn’t made it to the platform in time. He was too busy touching up last minute copy, final edits before deadline and office close. Too busy and too wound up these past few weeks, so much so that no one had the nerve to urge him not to work late. Yet again. A few stragglers poked their heads into his office, asking if they should stay, did he need any help, was he sure—_

_‘Yes. Go. I’m_ fine _, just go.’_

_Terse goodbyes that cut into his much needed distraction, one integral to his peace of mind. Stressful, his work, but manageable. Anticipated. He’d been determined to go on until his nerves wore themselves out, determined to finish and get home by midnight at the latest. Then, prayerfully, nothing but uninterrupted sleep would start off his weekend. But he’d underestimated how long he’d need to wrap things up. And now._

_What now?_

_He stood by the tracks, staring at the tunnel that had swallowed the last train whole. Silver disappeared into endless shadows as said train sped further, further out of sight. With it, all signs of life ebbed. The accompanying noise usually filling the background dwindled to emptiness. Nothing._

_Almost._

_A few unfortunate souls did remain. They were sprinkled about the platform, stuck in the same predicament, shivering and bundled in their coats, their scarves. Boot heels squelched against the granite tiles as they paced and trudged along. Some shook out umbrellas as they ventured into the storm. Others were sinking onto benches, sending out texts, calling loved ones; rides being arranged and meeting places designated._

_Others, still, with no one to call. Nowhere to go. They propped themselves against metal pillars, using their coats and bags as temporary blankets and pillows. Sleeping off the lull, it seemed, at least until the morning trains arrived. What else could they do? The next train was due hours from now, right before sunrise. It made sense. Asher was almost tempted to join in._

_But._

_Impulse, a nagging feeling, caused him to peel off his gloves and thumb out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, noting one by one those who were most likely to be asleep, those who were too far away, those he didn’t want to disturb—_

_And a pause, his finger faltering._

_Grant was just a speeddial away._

_But…_

_There was distance between them right now, a thread of tension stretched taut. A line crossed mere weeks ago, though it felt like much longer. Far longer, when they were both avoiding each other out of… What was this? Guilt? Embarrassment? The hope that, somehow, the memory of Asher’s blunder would come to pass and fade? No. An abysmal blunder, a first between them._

_A kiss._

_Asher’s face grew hot, then and now._

_And now._

_Despite himself, he dialed Grant’s number, unsure what he would say. It had been weeks since they’d last spoken, but Grant lived relatively close to the station. He would help, Asher thought. Hoped._ But maybe he won’t, maybe, maybe he shouldn’t, driving in all this rain, is that wise, is it right to even ask, to expect, and shouldn’t I just chance a hotel for the night, better than this waiting, this—

_‘Asher?’_

_Ah._

_Grant’s voice, tentative and a touch concerned, cut through his thoughts. It stirred something in Asher’s chest, making it hard for him to respond. His tongue was tied. Speech, momentarily forgotten. He stood feeling small, the phone lax in his hand and his satchel starting to slip down his shoulder._

_He could almost hear the furrow in Grant’s brow. ‘What’s wrong?’_

_‘Nothing. Nothing, I…’ A mistake, a mistake, a mistake to call. It’s nothing, I’m just. Stuck.’_

_‘Hurt?’_

_‘No. Missed the last train.’_

_‘Overworking again.’_

_‘A bit.’_

_‘Mm.’_

_Something in Grant’s tone brought to mind the last time they’d truly spoken. Their usual meeting at the cafe, their usual workload, their usual chat and banter bleeding well into the evening hours. The buzz of the crowd around them, various people too lost in their own rhythm to notice the change in Asher and Grant’s._

_A change, wasn’t there, in how Grant looked at him? How he spoke to him? How he carried himself in Asher’s presence, with far less staunch reserve. Tender, in a way, Asher was certain. And when had his heart started fluttering whenever Grant was near?_

_A change between them, subtle yet prompting response of some kind. Action. Progression. He wanted (how he’d wanted, for some time) to just lean in, to cradle Grant’s hands in his own while planting something chaste and soft and honest on his lips. A change between them, as Asher yielded to impulse, when all other heads were finally turned, when surrounding conversations were at their peak, when Grant seemed most open and inviting and—_

_Too late. Too late had he noticed Grant’s confliction with the kiss. Surprise, from the brief moment of his reciprocating lips and down to the sharp manner in which he’d broken away. His pale face colored; his gaze darted this way and that. His hand covered his mouth because he couldn’t quite find the words._

_Neither could Asher._

‘I… I didn’t… I’m—’

‘No, no. You just…’

‘I shouldn’t have.’

‘No, it’s… Think nothing of it.’

_Easier said. The memory of it stung at Asher now, made his eartips ring. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’_

_‘You didn’t,’ Grant replied. There was movement in the background as he shifted out of place. ‘Sit tight. I’ll be over shortly.’_

_‘I appreciate it.’_

_He did, truly. But it was a mistake to call. Grant arrived all the same._ _He arrived with no announcement beyond a single text to nudge Asher outside. They met by the station entrance, Grant holding an umbrella large enough to shield them both from downpour. He’d helped a sodden Asher settle into the passenger seat before climbing in himself, shaking some of the wetness from his hair._

_Silence with each movement. Avoiding Asher’s eyes._

_They rode back in the same fashion, the world morphing around them. Grant, focused on the road, one hand on the wheel and the other pressed to the side of his temple. Asher, peering through the window as they slipped through the city’s openings at leisure. A question (the kiss) still circling in both their minds._

_To apologize. To ignore. To speak. Yet Asher’s heart was caught in his throat before he could even consider his words. What_ could _he say, without the proper words? Without knowing where to begin?_

_Nothing._

_They arrived at Grant’s home, a t_ _ownhouse tucked away in one of Cloudbank’s more upscale residential districts. An unsurprising fit for someone of Grant’s rank. It stood tall, robust and vibrant amidst the rain. Amber lights shimmered from a number of windows, the neighbors’ and Grant’s own, making the buildings glow as if in welcome. As if to comfort both men despite their unease._

_It made Asher feel smaller._

_Before this point, he’d never been to Grant’s place. Their time together had always been limited to their respective offices, to the convenience of public spaces. A meeting and parting, on equal terms, equal ground. But this was so very different, startlingly so. To be invited into someone’s home implied a level of intimacy Asher wasn’t sure Grant was comfortable with. It implied a level of trust he felt he’d broken._

_And still, this tip-toeing around one another._

_It nagged at Asher even as he set down his things and examined the house with quiet awe. He was struck by the quaint, lived-in feeling it seemed to exude despite belonging to someone so grand, so orderly and attached to minimal designs. Plush creams and golds in the furniture and walls, accented red. Organized clutter could be found atop coffee tables, desks and in small alcoves. Paperwork and books, all thoroughly worn, sat stacked and piled about. Then there were the paintings, sprawling landscapes one wouldn’t be able to find in any park or nature trail in Cloudbank. They decorated the walls with an arresting air._

_Open fields, Asher noted while Grant disappeared upstairs. Open fields and open skies, sucking him in. Simple, delicate._

_Threatening to burst._

_He couldn’t bring himself to be happy, not here, not intruding on Grant’s domain in this way. Not when the man refused to say anything, to look at him or linger too closely. He was still adjusting to the blond’s presence, to the fact that this was their course, that this was their opportunity to clear the air at last. And yet…_

_‘You’re upset.’ Asher said it the moment he sensed Grant’s return, still eyeing the painting above the mantel. Weeping stalks of sunflowers, tall grass._

_Then, just as softly: ‘No.’_

_‘And a poor liar.’_

_‘And what about you?’_

_Asher turned, saw Grant holding out a small towel as he approached. Wordlessly he stretched out his hands but was surprised when Grant caught hold of them instead. He engulfed Asher’s palms with the towel, one dampened and warm, rubbing feeling back into each finger with care. Asher stood locked into the touch, unsure what to do with Grant so near. Unsure what to answer._

_‘About that night…’_

_‘Don’t.’ Something sharp in Grant’s tone, enough to draw Asher’s gaze upward. Steely grays were trained on him, softening in an instant. The first time tonight that they met eye to eye. Grant’s hands faltered, lowering with Asher’s still clasped in between. ‘If you’re about to apologize, don’t.’_

_‘Then…what am I to say?’_

_‘Nothing, Asher. The fault’s all mine.’_

_‘How so?’_

_He gave no answer—perhaps he had none. There was a flicker of something in his gaze, something yet unsaid resting on his lips, but he held it back with a sigh. He gave Asher’s hands a light squeeze, held them an instant longer. Holding on, as if to keep them both anchored. Holding on, as if afraid._

_Then he broke away._

 

-

 

_Grant,_

The words come much easier today. They spill forth the moment he puts the pen to paper, his hand moving in fluid strokes. Newfound energy spurs him on.

_Do you remember our first kiss? You grew distant afterwards. I was so certain I’d ruined everything, every good thing we had. So certain that you hadn’t felt the same. This was before I knew, understood, exactly what you were afraid of._

Change, between them. Progress. Destruction. How easily the balance could sway, from one to the other.

He hadn’t known about the Camerata back then. He hadn’t known about the chaos brewing within Grant’s heart, the start of something revolutionary and electrifying taking root. He hadn’t known about the goal still evolving in Grant and Royce’s minds—just the two of them, at the time, steadily piecing together Cloudbank’s future. The two of them, picking potential candidates to join their cause.

Candidates for integration.

Asher had been on the top of both lists.

Odd, to think back on it now.

_To think a simple kiss could break your resolve. But I can’t blame you. I don’t know how you managed to stand it, honestly. All the possibilities. Would I accept? Would I refuse? And how could I, when we’d come to an accord on most matters?_

_But there’s always doubt, that much I know._

_What if? The very question’s terrifying._

He wonders about the answer to that question now. If he’d been born into a different set of circumstances, a different mindset, a different skin—would he’d have been the kind of man to accept Grant’s offer without hesitation? Would he still have joined the Camerata, for better and worse, without fearing the consequences? No… Not without fear, as much as they tried to believe otherwise. They held such feelings at arm’s length, praying they’d succeed against all odds. For what great strides in mankind’s history were ever made without forsaking one’s comfort? So Asher had shelfed his fear.

But if he _hadn’t?_ If he’d refused? If Grant hadn’t faltered that night, with that kiss? If he’d decided, then and there, that the city’s future far outweighed whatever feelings he held for Asher? If he hadn’t chosen to divulge the truth behind Cloudbank’s many mysteries, its greatness, its flaws?

Or if they’d never met?

What then? How different the world would be.

_Do we embrace what change may come our way, or do we let it divide us?_

_What if, Grant? I ask myself that every day._

Then, sudden creaks. Footsteps. The slight groan of the stairs.

Asher stiffens in an instant, tugged from his thoughts as usual. But the atmosphere feels different somehow. Thick and heavy, though not as foreboding as before. Grant’s footsteps are much slower, cautious, as if he senses how easily he could shatter the rare calm in which Asher found himself this morning.

 _Exhausted,_ Asher thinks, recalling Grant’s hunched form and stifled tears. He tightens his grip on his pen, counting each self-conscious step his partner takes. Movement from behind, Grant pausing near the kitchen entrance. Hesitating. Waiting, both of them, wondering if the other will turn and acknowledge this change in routine. Elastic energy rests between them.

But Asher remains still, remains silent.

Grant remains a moment longer.

Then he continues. The front door opens, dulled sunlight spilling through. A _click_ as the door closes with resounding echo. An opportunity lost, regret already welling in Asher’s chest.

His eyes scan the page, his mind demanding focus. Distraction.

The “what ifs” scream out.

 

-

 

_'I couldn't stay...to meet with you, in person.'_

_His voice didn't feel like his own. He didn't feel quite all there, quite himself as he recorded what final message he could for their guest. Fashionably late, at this point. Far too late. For her, for them. Asher_ _gripped the edge of the OVC terminal, held it tight to keep himself steady. Willing himself not look to his side, where Grant had collapsed. Where...Grant's body..._

_Grant's body._

_The thought stung._

_'Grant—' Thinking his name was hard enough, but saying it drove the spike deeper into Asher's chest. He was trembling, trying his best to get the words out despite the pain. 'He couldn't wait any longer.'_

Wouldn't wait, didn't say a word, not a damned word, not a damned goodbye, I didn't get to say goodbye, why would he leave _—_

_This was what they'd wrought, what they'd done to her and her lover. And in that moment, Asher perfectly understood her wrath. He knew now, what it was like to have half your soul torn and stolen away. And for what? This chaos? This hell on earth?_

_When he'd first started recording, it was an attempt to reach out. An attempt to get her to understand, if not forgive. There was no forgiving this, but if she could just learn what they'd aimed for. If she could just see what they saw. If she knew how much their city's fate ate away at them all. At him. At Grant._

It wasn't worth this.

_He'd had so much resolve, Asher, so much dedication to the cause and to Cloudbank's potential. How it had unraveled, so quickly._

_Now, he just wanted a swift death._

If he had just waited.

_'We knew the stakes of what we wanted to accomplish.'_

If he had told me...taken me with him.

_'And we knew that, if we were to fail, we would do so together.'_

If she'd gotten here sooner.

_'As one.'_

_Nothing else for it. Nothing but his words, hollow remnants of intentions that served no purpose now._

_No._

It's the intent that inspires...

_Grant's reassurnace from so long ago. Grant's voice coming to mind and bringing tears to Asher's eyes. Did intentions matter any more, if this was the end? Would his words even matter any more, once he was gone?_

_He could hope._

_He'd like to hope._

_'See you in the Country.'_

 

-

 

Habit forms, and his daily entries soon turn into unshared letters to Grant. Pensive things at first, often delving into territory Asher found disheartening beyond all else. The monotony here, how much it reminds him of Cloudbank’s duller moments. Their final moments. The countless names and faces of people they’d ruined, the lives they stole. The way things could have differed with the Camerata; how much _they_ could have differed if they hadn’t joined together at all. The string of fights and hiccups throughout his and Grant’s relationship, the way they’d always been able to bounce back somehow until now. And the question still pervading in Asher’s mind:

_What drove you to tears?_

He dances around that question, even on the page. Instead, each letter is filled with bleak moments, pent up frustration and alternatives to this predicament they brought upon themselves.

Somewhere along the way, that changes.

The letters soon resemble time capsules detailing precious moments. What he cherishes, what he misses between them. Memories bubble back to the surface with each day lent to writing. Ripples of warmth, despite this rift. Intimate moments:

_Grant reclined in his armchair, eyes slipped shut and head tilted back. The slight rise and fall of his chest, the faint snores that brought an amused grin to Asher’s lips. In Grant’s lap, a bundle of black fur neatly curled, its body lax under Grant’s touch. At peace with each other, the pair. Ironic, considering how much Grant claimed he disliked cats._

_A cityscape bathed in light, fireworks bursting in crackling waves. Cheers and laughter carried as color streaked the night sky. Asher with his corner-side apartment view, overlooking the scene below from his bedroom. Celebration in full swing, excitement swelling in his chest. Grant, wrapping an arm around his waist from behind and nuzzling a kiss there. Asher, running lazy fingers through the man’s hair. Murmurs of well wishes as the New Year set in._

_The smell of mint and leather mingling together, flooding his senses—a blank journal with thin lines, crisp pages, sleek and hand bound. Comfortable in his hands, and custom made. His name was embossed on the bottom right corner. A gift for the sake of it, Grant had said, even though Asher claimed there was no occasion. A gift that struck Asher right in the heart._

_The beating of his heart, quick and loud. Couldn’t Grant hear it? Couldn’t he hear it, when he was towering so close, tilting Asher’s chin upwards? Kiss number two, unabashed and unrestrained. Kiss number two, the same night Asher had missed his train, shortly followed by Grant’s whispers. There’s something I must tell you… Something you need to know.’_

_And Asher, winded, was willing to believe anything,_ do _anything if he’d just kiss him like that again._

So different, now. Different, but remembered.

Asher teases each image out, less resigned with his prose, losing himself in his own words. He no longer falters whenever Grant passes through the hall. (Pausing each time, brief but noticeable.) In those moments, Asher’s deaf to the world around him as a familiar spark burns. He’ll dive headlong into the process, drafting one letter after another without pause; and in those rare moments his hand writes faster than his thoughts can keep up, he’ll rip out the page and start anew.

The resulting mess has never bothered him, but it catches Sybil’s attention one afternoon. ‘Do you do that every time?’

She asks it quietly, with no annoyance or accusation, and it takes Asher by surprise. He glances over his shoulder in response, watching as she slips inside the kitchen with an empty mug in hand and sleep still etched into her features. He leans back in his chair, turning a fraction to face her. ‘It’s easier on a computer.’

‘Ah. I miss those.’

Shuffling sounds, her slippers on the wooden floor. She moves to wash her mug and the dishes accumulating in the sink. Asher eyes her a moment, unsure what to say. Unsure what to make of the smile on her lips, small and foreign.

Sad.

His gaze falls to the floor.

‘Does it help?’ She asks when he says nothing else. Water runs from the faucet, filling the sink halfway and cutting into the silence.

Asher rolls the pen between his fingers. ‘Yes and no. Gives me something to do.’

‘What do you write about?’

‘Everything, nothing.’

‘Oh.’

Hurt in her voice, perhaps, when he doesn’t elaborate. It’s subtle. Then clinking dishes, Sybil taking her time with cleaning. Washing, rinsing, tucking dishes away in the drying rack to her right. A distraction, Asher notes, and he wonders when he grew so used to their conversations fizzling like this.

He waits a beat, turns back to face her. ‘Something on your mind?’

‘It’s just…’ Her turn to pause, her hands sinking into suds and water. ‘It’s quiet, is all.’

‘You’re usually sleeping through it.’

‘Mm.’

‘Does that help?’

‘Yes. No.’

‘Do you dream?’

‘Always.’

‘About?’

‘Everything. Nothing.’

He couldn’t fight back the grin.

There's some sass left in her yet, some humor returning to her face as she continues washing dishes. Tension in the air, slowly breaking. Then Asher’s rising from the table before he knows it. He approaches the counter, grabs the cloth folded by Sybil’s side and starts drying each dish she places on the rack. They settle into a steady rhythm, a comfortable silence reminiscent of old times.

Close, but not quite.

‘Do you dream about her?’

No response, at least not immediately. ‘Sometimes.’

‘If things had… You never considered turning your back, for her sake?’

‘No.’

‘Not once?’

‘Why would I?’

It’s pure curiosity, on Asher’s part. They’ve never talked about it until now. She’s never opened up enough to allow it, but for some reason it doesn’t strike the nerve he expects. For some reason, she’s still calm, lets him press on.

‘You could have, so easily. She meant something to you, more to you than to any of us. And, I guess, I’m just trying to understand.’

‘Love fades.’

A simple response, matter-of-fact. It takes Asher by surprise. More so, it's the gentle way she says it, as if it’s a statement she’s told herself again and again until it became truth.

‘You can’t believe that.’

‘And why not?’

 _You still love her,_ he wants to say, _even now._

But perhaps that’s preciously why.

They both know that she’d have given that woman anything. She’d have turned the world upside down if it meant avoiding the inevitable; if it meant prolonging the sense of belonging that came hand in hand with loving someone, with being loved by someone in return. She’d have shaken the world apart—as she had, unintentional or otherwise.

The both know this, but Asher swallows his response.

Sybil senses it nonetheless. She’s quiet, mulling over her words. Then: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘No, it’s insensitive. Especially considering…’ She glances back at the table, at his abandoned journal and the surrounding bundles of crumpled paper. ‘You write about it, right?’

‘A bit.’

‘And what else?’

‘Grant. Mostly to Grant, in letters.’

‘Does he read them?’

‘I don’t show him.’

 _Afraid to,_ she doesn’t say, but he sees it in her expression.

Love fades, love fades, _and what if the love’s faded away?_

‘You should,’ she says, as if sensing the thought looping in Asher's mind. The doubt, the question—

The answer. Revelation striking him at last.

What if Grant thinks his love is gone?

Love fades, love fades, but no—not so. Not with them. Not with so much still left unsaid.

Unsaid, but written.

He eyes his journal from across the room. Page upon page of their history, of passion revisited. A mess of memories, but one Grant can make sense of, if given the chance. A mess that Asher can polish and refine into proper letters left in the open, left for Grant to read in a way that still allows for distance. Asher's words can serve as a bridge until that distance is closed.

_Intent carries._

‘It’s a thought.’ Sybil’s voice, small, ringing in his ears.

‘Mm.’

It’s a plan.


	3. Renew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pretend this didn't take me a year to finish.

It’s gradual.

Great care is placed in every sentence, every sentiment strewn across the page. Thoughts flow far easier than before, guided by a newfound purpose. Rough drafts, the freedom to ramble and backtrack with leisure. Second drafts, cohesion added in the gaps and margins. Revision, revision, more revision.

It’s a process Asher knows well. He writes freely in hopes that Grant will respond in kind. Given time, due time.

_But when?_

The question needles at him with each passing morning. The same old rhythm of Grant’s descent, his resounding footsteps, his careful stride through the hall. His pauses are so poignant now that Asher keeps his ears tuned to every sound, or lack thereof. Grant’s pauses grow less wary with each day, more anticipatory. They’re broken only by the slightest ruffling of paper.

Asher’s letters.

They’ll beckon from their perch on the hallway table, always neatly folded with Grant’s name printed in one corner. Beckoning, and yet…

A small part of Asher fears Grant’s disregard.

How blatant, how scathing, how _easy_ it would be for Grant to simply push forward and leave Asher’s intentions ignored.

Yet.

He takes each note in hand before his departures, tucks them in his pockets. He’s wordless even in his curiosity, but at least there’s acknowledgement in the taking.

Does he find such correspondence strange? Does it rekindle, somehow, an old spark long forgotten? Does the boldness in Asher’s words cry out and reach him, making him itch to write, to reminisce, to confess memories of his own?

What’s left that hasn’t already been written?

 _Your side in all this_ , Asher tells himself. He repeats it like a mantra. _I need to hear you._

So he writes.

And, gradually, the constants change.

 

-

 

Constants:

Asher leaving the room long before Grant stirs to life.

Grant, lying awake but pretending not to be. He senses his husband’s withdrawal. He’s learned to expect it at this point. He’ll note the trickle of light, the sun still on the rise, its warmth not yet reaching him.

Asher’s warmth, suddenly gone.

Asher is gone.

And ache will root itself within Grant’s chest, reminding him how deep this divide remains.

Well, no.

It’s different now.

Change:

Asher’s touch, feather light and hesitant enough for Grant to mistake it as his own wishful thinking. _Surely, surely he’s not…_

But he is.

Asher’s movements are slow as he wraps arms around Grant’s waist and presses his forehead to the man’s back. He folds against the curve of Grant’s spine while releasing the faintest of breaths, a surprised sound. Surprised by how easily Grant yields.

Grant won’t tense up in these moments, won’t shy away. He’ll loosen instead as ochre fingers fan out along his skin. Asher’s fingers, tender. Inviting. Patient, even when Grant doesn’t move to return the embrace. He doesn’t dare.

_This won’t last._

_All that’s good, any progress you’ve ever made._

_It never lasts._

That’s the Cloudbank he knew; why should the Country be any different?

And Asher’s grip will tighten, as if to challenge the thought.

_Isn’t it?_

Grant closes his eyes, each time.

He thinks of open roads.

 

-

 

_Tell me something, Asher. Why me?_

_Too many reasons why, not enough words in this world._

_Humor me with one._

_No one else mattered before you – no one else ever will._

Isn’t that enough?

 

-

 

It’s the road that calls out to Grant, beckoning each day. He follows its path in silence, wading through his thoughts. Memories. Imagined scenarios, conversations he and Asher have never had. He’ll lose himself as the world murmurs around him. It speaks to him, boasting familiar sights and sensations:

The light breeze at his nape, jostling tall grass and dew-kissed flowers.

The horizon, unmarred by any cityscape or manmade structure.

Sweeping gradients of color, brilliant blues and golds and greens.

The pure vastness of it all, one that rivals Cloudbank’s.

Then, slowly:

Cloudbank’s features bleed into the Country, one leisured step at a time.

Soon the path has morphed into brick and tile, lined on either side by benches and lampposts and landmarks of ornate design. Streets signs sprout forth, lights flash, and he’ll hear the pings of technology ringing overhead.

Haze; cigarettes and car exhaust, buildings spitting smoky plumes into the sky. He’ll feel the humidity on his skin, breathe in all these clashing scents. He’ll swear he can actually see a sidewalk bustling with people. A multitude of life, intersecting, colliding, passing each other by.

Cloudbank’s citizens, at once untied and divided.

Grant, both here and there.

And nowhere at all.

It’s a kind of peace, a kind of chaos.

It’s static motion.

It’s home. It’s foreign.

It’s a comfort and anything but.

He’ll feel a torrent of displacement and belonging wash over him as he explores this in-between – and he misses Cloudbank.

He does and doesn’t.

There’s a different kind of freedom to be found in the Country. It’s one without worry of public expectation, of never-ending change. Here, he can travel at his own pace, can falter or chart his course as he pleases. So different from Cloudbank and its narrow choices, a machine in which he played but a mere part. A voice with no real say.

What can be said here?

What’s _left_ to be said?

Asher’s words lay cradled in his pocket, waiting to be read and charged with electric energy.

With reassurance.

_I’m still here._

 

-

 

_Love fades._

No.

Love waits.

 

-

 

_A bridge._

_Finally, after a month of gridlock in the revote, a month of citywide debate regarding its location, a month of Administration considering whether or not they should intervene – finally, the bridge won out._

_It overlooked the water in Cloudbank’s northeastern district, serving as yet another pedestrian trail to circumvent the city's congested traffic. A sturdy structure, one of dark wood and wrought iron intricately spun. It was ornate, expansive and expressive enough to leave the masses pleased for some time. Royce’s pride, his joy, his magnum opus. His favorite design, by far, due its sheer breadth and impact alone._

_Simple things, bridges, but as symbolic as they are effective._

_A bridge meant neutral ground, casual and transitionary. A bridge served as a meeting place, as a crossroads, as a unifying force between one world and another. It spoke of possibility. There was promise in a bridge, of endings as well as new beginnings. For chance and destined meetings, for enemies and lovers both, where else but a bridge in the cusp of night or at dawn break? Where else, as a setting for change?_

_Or as catalyst._

_Grant had invited Asher to this bridge, not long after its grand opening. Not long after that fateful night in Grant’s home, after the storm had cleared and he’d sent Asher on his way. He’d meant to cut things off for good that night, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to simply close the door after cracking it back open, just so. Not after coming so close to telling Asher the truth._

_That he couldn’t stand this ambiguity between them._

_That he couldn’t stand another day, another night, another second without Asher by his side._

_When had he grown so reliant?_

_He couldn’t say. He just wanted to see Asher again._

_So he'd called, and they met on this bridge. They crossed it, shoulder to shoulder, surveying the multitude of people just as wayward and intoxicated by this beautiful, new thing as they. All glittering lights and thrumming sound, infectious excitement filling the air. They wandered amidst these curious souls, not quite talking but enjoying each other’s company all the same._

_Grant watched at one point as Asher approached the railing and grabbed on, hopping up with childlike awe. He peered over the edge, blew out a whistle. ‘We’re so high up.’_

_Grant laughed. ‘Yes.’_

_‘Far, too. Look.’_

_‘Yes.’_

_Then a sidelong glance, Asher noting the pensive expression growing on Grant’s face. ‘You alright?’_

_‘Yes, just…’ Grant unfolded his hands from behind his back, moved them so that one settled atop Asher’s. He leaned against the railing as well, looking towards the cityscape that was lit up like a beacon. 'I’m glad you’re here. Glad you came.’_

_Quiet, now. 'I figured you just needed some space.’_

_‘You’ve always been so patient with me.’_

_‘No more than you’ve been with me.’_

_Never missing a beat, his Asher._

_His. It surprised him every time, the way he thought of Asher these days. As if he were some right to claim, some entity Grant could contain when there was nothing farther from true._

_Yet Asher seemed, always, so ready to tether his life to Grant’s. Not without his questions, not without some fuss. He was too keen on knowing the truth to ever follow anyone so blindly._

_But here he was._

_Here, he’d stay._

He's always stayed. Surely that's sign enough? 

_Grant sighed, weaved his fingers through Asher’s. ‘I left too many things unexplained the other night. Too much unresolved.’_

_A light hum, a slight pause. Asher met his gaze. ‘Tell me.’_

_And Grant – how could he not?_

 

-

 

_It’s been too long._

Response at last, sudden and staggering. It greets Asher one morning, set atop the kitchen table. He’s quick to grab it, tracing fingers over the scrawling letters as if seeing Grant’s handwriting for the first time. The paragraphs unravel in loose stanzas.

He sinks into the chair and reads.

_Too long, Asher, since we last talked or felt the comfort to do so. I’ve been so convinced that it was too late as well._

_You ask where I go, why?_

_Everywhere. Nowhere at all._

_I see Cloudbank blending with a world we’ve only ever dreamed._

_You call this hell. It feels more like reprieve._

_It’s waiting for a chance to breathe, to unwind itself, to move. I merely move with it, longing for the same._

_Outside, at least, I can see how far the roads here lead. Outside, I can better reflect._

_I tell myself that possibilities remain. Possibility and fear._

_You terrify me, still. You always have._

How long has Grant needed a willful ear at his disposal? How long has he craved the opportunity to parse out his feelings with none of the immediacy of face-to-face? No dismissals. No interruptions. Nowhere to hide when emotions erupted, just this honesty. This openness.

_I drove you here and abandoned you when it mattered most. Why put you through such a thing?_

_Why do I leave only to return, return just to leave?_

_Why do you shoulder the blame when it’s always been mine, mine alone?_

_You speak of regrets, Asher. You speak of what we could have done differently, of what we could have accomplished if things hadn’t ended the way they did._

_If we’d succeeded._

_If we’d never met._

_I cannot bear the latter._

_I never wanted this for you. I didn’t want to sully your future, bring you into my life just to lead you to ruin._

_Worse yet, I didn’t want to let you go. Not when you’d already forced your way in, too bright and curious and magnetic beyond measure._

_Not the night we first kissed, nor the nights and kisses that followed. Not even when I’d welcomed you as one, as Camerata. As family._

_As mine._

_Never – never – have I wanted anything or anyone more._

_That’s frightening._

Practically a love letter sung wistfully into Asher’s ear. He imagines Grant in the room beside him, baring his heart in that rumbling voice, that solemn tone that promises nothing but truth.

Everything Grant has ever known as truth:

The fragility of precious things, packed into fleeting moments.

Tides of friend and loved ones fading in and out of his life.

Brilliance, snuffed out after years of ruthless change.

Cloudbank, the pinnacle of freedom as well as its own prisoner.

Its people, unique but rigid, innovative yet uninspired.

Frightening.

_So rarely do you find someone who complements you. You often go into things as certain people, set on certain paths. You’re both so sure of yourselves and your life together._

_Then, next you know, you’re worlds apart._

_It’s happened before. It could happen again._

_I’d berated and convinced myself, over and over, that you were better kept at arm’s length. Better to keep you in the dark then confess how much I needed you. How much I enjoyed you needing me too._

_I wanted you out of my life, but you’d become so integral to it._

_I wanted you in my life, but I couldn’t bear the weight of your eventual regret._

_Surely you regret me?_

‘Idiot.’ Asher mutters it to himself, palm pressed snug against his mouth as he tries to steady his breathing. He feels winded. He wants to shake Grant for suggesting as much, for even thinking this. ‘No, you absolute idiot.’

Regret meeting Grant?

Not once. Not now. Not ever.

_No._

_We are past regret. You just want the why of it, the how._

_How could I leave you?_

_I’m still struggling for that answer, Asher._

_Walk with me tomorrow._

A sudden start, a sudden end.

That invitation is written far below as a line all its own, as if Grant had debated its inclusion only to change his mind in the end. Helpless against his own loneliness.

Asher leans back, grips the letter tight in his hands.

Relaxes. Sighs.

Helpless, the both of them.

 

-

 

They rise together the next morning, a first in ages.

It takes some adjusting, some time for this shift in routine to sink in. Only when they’re both getting dressed, their backs turned and gazes trained low, does Asher realize how aware he is of Grant’s presence. The sheer size of him, his scent. The subtle change in his demeanor. Grant pads about without any sense of urgency or obligation, as if the day will rest and move at his whim and his alone. Asher steals glances here and there, wondering if Grant’s ease is as genuine as it seems. Wondering why he can’t calm his own nerves.

_Say something…_

Yet, nothing.

Nothing but Grant’s slow gait, Asher following his lead. He trails behind as they go downstairs, fiddling around with his wedding ring just to have some distraction from the growing knot in his stomach. It tightens, loosens. Tightens again.

_Say something, Asher._

Why isn’t Grant speaking?

 _Patience,_ Asher thinks. _That’s what has gotten you here._

Patience.

They pass through the hall, past the kitchen that now sits darkened and empty without Asher there to occupy it. Farther still, towards the den where Asher falters at Grant’s heels. The blanketed mass on the couch catches his eye.

Royce and Sybil, he notes with surprise. They’re sleeping, curled into each other so closely he can’t distinguish which figure is which.

‘Lonely,’ Grant says when he notices Asher’s curious stare.

It takes a moment for the word to register. ‘Sybil?’

‘Her. Royce, mostly. You know how he is. Never comes outright and says it.’

‘Ah.’

Asher lingers, uncertain why the very sight of them is enough to unwind the knot in his gut. Tension starts to dissolves, if only by a fraction, and he’s struck by the realization that there’s still so much they can recognize in one another. Still so much they can offer one another, be it a cup of coffee, companionship through the night, a letter.

A walk.

Grant gives Asher’s hand a gentle tug. ‘Come, love.’

They go.

It’s the first Asher’s been outside in some time. He remembers venturing out on his own, back when they first arrived. Not often, just occasionally. He never got far before it became too much to handle, all that empty space and quiet. Too much for him to fathom alone.

He’s not alone, now.

The Country feels far imposing in Grant’s company. Warmth pulses at the junction of their hands, their fingers intertwining the instant they leave the porch. How odd to have to reacquaint themselves with each other’s touch, when it was once so intimate. They soon fall in step beside each other, still walking in silence.

It doesn’t bother Asher as much when he considers that it’s not because Grant’s at a loss of words. No, one look at Grant’s face and it’s clear that he’s simply relishing this moment. He’s finally able to share what brings him piece of mind.

So Asher drinks it in.

He lets his gaze wander over the scenery he’s envisioned countless times before. It seems more welcoming, softer. He listens:

The wind’s whistle and sigh, its gentle teasing of the leaves littering the path.

Cricket chorus and chirping frogs.

Rustling movement amidst the grassy fields.

The crunch of dirt beneath his and Grant’s heels.

The steady sound of their breathing, in and out.

In. Out.

It’s enough to lull the senses.

Asher glances at Grant who seems to be staring at something far off, something unseen.

Cloudbank, no doubt, or some echo of it.

Asher pictures the very same. All the paths they used to take on their strolls through the city. Block after block, through underpass and bustling plaza. Down each major street or off-beaten road. The old town districts and the trove of districts newly designed. The middle grounds where modern met historic, where certain aesthetics endured the test of time and changing trends.

How bright and new the world seemed back then. How sudden it seemed to transform into something worth cherishing, worth fighting for to the bitter end.

All because of an emotion as simple, as complicated, as contrived and explosive as love.

Asher had been beyond surprised when Grant finally admitted that his feelings were mutual. That they could start anew, if Asher still felt Grant worthy.

Of course. Why wouldn’t he?

That certainty had colored not only their relationship, but their plans for Cloudbank. No challenge seemed off limits, no aspiration too high, no change so irreversible that they lost heart.

How could they lose that which had been so thoroughly renewed?

The same sentiment floods Asher now.

He’s missed this.

Grant has too. He says as much by the way he looks at Asher, hints of a smile on his lips. ‘So, a novel’s worth of letters and suddenly you’re speechless?’

Asher huffs, though he’s unable hide the amusement in his tone. ‘You’re one to talk.’

‘Fair point. Though, I just had the one.’

‘One was enough.’

Grant nods. A moment passes, then his expression grows solemn. He hesitates before working out his next words. ‘Where should I start?’

Pause.

Then, just as softly, Asher says, ‘With whatever’s on your mind.’

Here, Grant stops. He turns to face Asher, taking hold of the blond’s free hand so that both now rest encompassed in a firm grip. Grant’s tense, waiting as if he’s afraid of sullying this moment.

Then he speaks. ‘I’m sorry.’

Heavy words, hanging between them. Asher releases a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding. ‘Grant–’

‘Please, let me. I’m sorry for the way I just…left. For all the time I’ve left it unsaid. For all the time it’s taken us to get here. It doesn’t change anything, I know, but you still need to hear it.’

Asher tears his gaze away, looks anywhere but at Grant. Enough time’s passed, he thought, for the hurt to have dwindled by now. Enough time and distance for it to sting less by now.

Not so.

Asher clenches his jaw, stares pointedly at his feet. He hears his own pain echoed in Grant’s voice as Grant whispers, ‘Please look at me.’

Asher does, despite the emotions brewing inside him. Forces his voice to keep steady. ‘You weren’t thinking straight back then.’

‘That makes it better?’

‘No, but… I get why.’

‘And that means it’s forgiven?’

‘Isn’t that why we’re here, to forgive?’ It’s unsettling, the way Grant prods for some kind of admonishment. As if he’s expected nothing else, just another spew of heated words. Another fight Asher isn’t willing to give. ‘Why do you sound so surprised at the thought of my forgiveness?’

‘Because it is not deserved.’

Deserve – as if forgiveness could be so black and white.

‘So you don’t deserve me?’ Asher asks, his tone growing sharp. ‘So I tell you that I hate you, that you’ve ruined me and everything I’ve ever had? That I’ve no blame in this at all, after just yelling at you and closing myself off without even hearing what you had to say? Without even _listening_ to what you’ve always had to say? You think I’m that cold?’

‘No…’

‘No. So why are we here?’

It feels no different from when they’d first met. They’d met by chance, then kept meeting until it didn’t seem like chance anymore. Until fate became more than just an abstract.

Fate, that’s the reason. Deserve or not, they’ve been fated to come here.

Grant’s features soften when Asher shifts and settles his hands upon Grant’s cheeks. He pulls Grant’s head down until their temples meet, until there’s nothing but Asher’s words tumbling between them.

‘You listen to me – I’m sorry too. I’m sorry for letting you ever think, ever _feel_ , that I don’t love you. I’ve never stopped.’

‘Asher…’

‘Listen. I’ve never stopped, Grant. I never will. What happened to Cloudbank that night hasn’t changed that.

‘It’s the fact that we haven’t talked about it since. The fact that we haven’t talked at all. That all we’ve done until now is wallow and fester and separate ourselves when we’ve been given a second chance.

‘You want to talk about underserved – tell me how we ever deserved the blessing of eternity together, you and me?’

Together. The one thing in which they’ve been lucky. They’re still together when they easily could have wound up alone. Or worse.

Why couldn’t they have seen that sooner?

Asher thinks of all the ample opportunity wasted, of the night he’d caught Grant crying. He could’ve bridged the gap right then and there if he’d only swallowed his fear and offered the comfort Grant so desperately needed. Fear has kept them silent. It’s held them back, but no more.

‘No more, Grant. Do you hear me? No more talk of who does or doesn’t deserve this or that. We’re still here, that’s what matters. So let’s be _us_ again.’

A weak laugh. ‘Sounds so simple.’

‘Simple doesn’t mean easy.’

‘No,’ Grant murmurs, ‘but we’ll figure it out.’

‘We always have.’

And a smile, finally. An actual smile on Grant’s face. Asher matches it with his own.

_Took us long enough._

-

 

_What can exist here, when nothing else does?_

_Everything. Nothing._

_There is nothing without you. No me without you. No here or now worth enduring without you. There is only you and me and this mess we’ve made together. There are these pieces of us waiting to be whole again, fighting to be whole again._

_We will be whole._

_We will not fight this alone._


End file.
